[ Yusuf tries to hide his smile in the book he brought. He knew where this was going to go when their child said he was interested in soccer - football as its known in their house.
Still, he has to disprove sometimes. ]
Eames, let's not get thrown out of the stands.
[... But a moment later someone calls a foul on their son's team which leads to him shouting, ] THEY'RE PAYING YOU FOR THAT AREN'T THEY!
* Football as it should be known everywhere- none of this Americanized soccer nonsense. There is a reason their child is being taught in proper English; the reason being its the right way!
But, as every good, albeit slightly overbearing couple sitting in the stands, cheering their six year olds on, Eames wraps an arm around his husband's shoulders and keeps him from crawling over the curly haired mother seated in front of them. *
We'll get him later, don't worry about- stay right here.
[ Yusuf grew up in India - his English was learned much the same way as Eames', due to the still lingering effects of British colonization. There was never much of a fight on the soccer vs football name debate.
Yusuf huffs in irritation at the ref and allows himself to be pulled back to seating, leaning against Eames. ]
I've half a mind to go give him a piece of my mind. But you throw a punch better.
[ Never too early or too old to instill a competitive streak. ]
Not on the field, remember we promised we wouldn't do that anymore.
* And by we, Eames mostly means I. Its hard enough when your dads are shouting from the bleachers as if they're at the bloody world cup, it gets infinitely embarrassing for you as a six year old boy in bright yellow when your father starts pounding on your volunteer referee.
Not that Yusuf doesn't give said referee a looking over afterwards. If his poking and prodding (Does this hurt? No? How about now? Oh, that might be broken...) is a little rough, well, Yusuf is a vindictive man wearing a nice man's smile. *
[ He is entirely serious. He would care more about promising their son than the couch; although to keep him playing it might end up being the same anyway.
And of course Yusuf makes sure the man is all right. But when it gets cold, well, that could mean he's missing something and so he has to totally poke harder to make sure he's okay.
This referee looks new anyway. ]
Plenty of alleys near here anyway - [ He cuts off to whoop when someone makes a goal. ]
I believe Desta sat us down and gave us a proper talking to. Or, at least he did with me. * Eames frowns, looking away from the game to check Yusuf's look. * Didn't he do the same with you??
* Its a beautiful day and Yusuf is used to much hotter temperatures than an English spring, so where Eames' brow is beaded with a light sheen of sweat, Yusuf's curls are bouncy and dry. Eames likes the way Yusuf's eyebrows draw down- as if watching a particularly important chemical reaction when in reality, they're just overly zealous about their son's football match. The Stingers versus the Warblers- those blue shirt kids are going down. *
Bollocks, I missed it! * Eames curses, turning back to the game. Hey, his husband has some nice curls. Sometimes a man has to stare. *
[ The heat is nothing to Yusuf, and if he had been paying attention to Eames rather than their son, he would have pointed it out with a grin. It is a subject of much teasing from Yusuf.
Of course, Eames sweaty is a perennial distraction to Yusuf; when the Englishman strips down to his undershirts or even boxers, things have a tendency to get dropped, naps are had early.
Now grinning, Yusuf pats Eames' knee, leaving his hand there almost unconsciously. ]
When did he ask you? I seem to recall a young man marching into my lab last week with a serious look but getting distracted by me showing him how to make silly putty.
[ And no shitty glue and flour knockoff but their very own personalized liquid rubber. ]
* Leaning into Yusuf's shoulders with his own, Eames smiles and can't hope to keep an annoyed look about him when he can remember Desta running into the den with bright green goop all over him shouting about turning into a ninja turtle. Eames isn't quite sure where their son is getting the obscure 80's cartoon knowledge from, but its cute nonetheless. * It must be nice to be the mad scientist in this relationship.
* Turning his eyes back to the field, Eames watches their son lag behind a bit and wonders what he's doing, why he's not running up to steal the ball from the little blue-shirted blighter when he sees the opening that his son's waiting for. He darts his foot in between another little boy's legs when the blue shirt kid passes the ball and Eames leaps up with an excited shout. He's shouting encouragement and advice at Desta, nearly yelling himself hoarse as their son keeps control of the ball (as much as a six year old can) and heads for the goal. *
It's immensely satisfying, I can assure you. [ His tone has all the smugness that the thought warrants. And Yusuf was in part responsible for the 80's knowledge, having lived what he called a second childhood when he discovered Netflix.
He pressed his shoulder back against Eames' and then when his husband leapt up to shout Yusuf laughed and shouted his own encouragement, cupping his hands around his mouth to make the sound travel. It takes a moment but Desta manages to make his own goal, and the mild embarassment on his face from his loud, overenthusiastic parents is replaced with six year old pride as both fathers whoop. ]
* Desta gives a wave of his little arm (sometimes Eames can't help but wrap his hand around that little arm when he's sleeping, partially marveling at how small he still is, and partially checking to make sure he isn't growing up too quickly) before he's swarmed by children in yellow shirts, crowding around him even though the ref is trying to get them back to mid field. The parents on the blue team are shouting something about it being an obvious foul, but they're all full of shit anyway so Eames turns to plants a kiss on Yusuf's mouth in victory.
He sits back down and doesn't even mind the way his shirt threatens to stick to his back in the spring heat. Eventually the ref blows his whistle and the kids scatter to get back to mid field, ready to go for another thirty minutes of chasing the ball back and forth.
There is nothing as satisfying as enrolling your child in a proper, competitive game of football. To Desta goes the glory and to his daddies goes the unchallenged nap time. *
[ It's almost pure luck how they came to have Desta - a client of Yusuf's who'd become pregnant, but seeing as she was frequently a dreamer, she had known she didn't want to raise the child. Already planning to give him up, she had mentioned it to Yusuf, who had mentioned it to Eames. Seeing as they couldn't have children of their own, and the woman was trying to be as responsible in her given situation as she could be, they had ended up adopting the child when he was born.
Yusuf hadn't regretted a moment of it yet, even when Desta kept him and Eames up all hours of the night when he was young, and the inevitable teenage years.
His grin is wide at his son's wave as he's swarmed, and he smiles even into the kiss Eames plants on him, laughing against the other man's mouth while other happy parents and spectators cheer.
At the whistle he moves his hand down Eames' back, pulling the thin cotton free from the sweat on his back and then reaching down to hold Eames' hand because he can, fingerd squeezing tight as the kids start their game
( ... )
* Even though Eames doesn't want to think about it- Desta growing up and learning to tie his shoes in less than twenty minutes (still tricky for some reason, and he has such an independent streak when it comes to tying his own shoes), or growing out of dinosaur hoodies, or learning that he's gotten himself into trouble that doesn't involve a band-aid and a kiss to the top of his head- he's excited for everything that's in store for their son. It may be a little self-serving on Eames' part, but he can't help but think that Desta's got a great shot at whatever he wants to do with his life; two loving, supportive parents and a world of possibilities.
Eames presses his lips to Yusuf's shoulder, distractedly, because he's paying more attention than is healthy to a pack of six year olds chasing after a checked ball. Their fingers fit together the way they always have, even before Eames slipped the platinum band around Yusuf's finger-- platinum, because gold flecks were too reactive when working in the lab. *
[ Yusuf will be happy to get there when they get there; right now Desta is six and he's chasing a football and enjoying every minute of it. And win or lose (he's winning anyway) they'll take him out for a treat afterwards and then home, where Desta will almost fall asleep in the bath when Yusuf helps him wash.
Yusuf leans back into Eames when he presses the kiss to his shoulder, also distracted by their son's team. The band had been something that made Yusuf grin for many reasons; because it was a symbol of their marriage, that Eames had remembered Yusuf's comment about reactive gold in the lab.
He squeezes Eames' hand again as Desta chases the blue shirted boy with the ball around, lifting a hand to call advice. ]
* And once Desta is tucked into bed for the hour or so that he'll stay asleep, Eames will peel Yusuf out of sopping wet clothes (thank you Desta) and coax him into the shower once all the dirty water has drained from the tub. He’ll pull him into the bathroom with false promises of I just want to wash your hair for you. What kind of scoundrel do you think I am? When they both know the kind of scoundrel Eames is; fingers buried in Yusuf's curls and teeth closed around Yusuf's earlobe, too close in their shower but never close enough.
Yes, that is precisely the kind of scoundrel Eames is, and he plans to never stop.
Eames runs his thumb over Yusuf's knuckles when he squeezes Eames' hand, watching Desta lag behind the quick blighter in blue. He could call out advice but Yusuf's got it covered, and is usually better at articulating things where Eames tends to shout nebulous nonsense. He can tell Desta is starting to lag and he almost wants to get up and call their son to the side lines for a drink of water. *
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Still, he has to disprove sometimes. ]
Eames, let's not get thrown out of the stands.
[... But a moment later someone calls a foul on their son's team which leads to him shouting, ] THEY'RE PAYING YOU FOR THAT AREN'T THEY!
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But, as every good, albeit slightly overbearing couple sitting in the stands, cheering their six year olds on, Eames wraps an arm around his husband's shoulders and keeps him from crawling over the curly haired mother seated in front of them. *
We'll get him later, don't worry about- stay right here.
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Yusuf huffs in irritation at the ref and allows himself to be pulled back to seating, leaning against Eames. ]
I've half a mind to go give him a piece of my mind. But you throw a punch better.
[ Never too early or too old to instill a competitive streak. ]
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* And by we, Eames mostly means I. Its hard enough when your dads are shouting from the bleachers as if they're at the bloody world cup, it gets infinitely embarrassing for you as a six year old boy in bright yellow when your father starts pounding on your volunteer referee.
Not that Yusuf doesn't give said referee a looking over afterwards. If his poking and prodding (Does this hurt? No? How about now? Oh, that might be broken...) is a little rough, well, Yusuf is a vindictive man wearing a nice man's smile. *
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[ He is entirely serious. He would care more about promising their son than the couch; although to keep him playing it might end up being the same anyway.
And of course Yusuf makes sure the man is all right. But when it gets cold, well, that could mean he's missing something and so he has to totally poke harder to make sure he's okay.
This referee looks new anyway. ]
Plenty of alleys near here anyway - [ He cuts off to whoop when someone makes a goal. ]
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* Its a beautiful day and Yusuf is used to much hotter temperatures than an English spring, so where Eames' brow is beaded with a light sheen of sweat, Yusuf's curls are bouncy and dry. Eames likes the way Yusuf's eyebrows draw down- as if watching a particularly important chemical reaction when in reality, they're just overly zealous about their son's football match. The Stingers versus the Warblers- those blue shirt kids are going down. *
Bollocks, I missed it! * Eames curses, turning back to the game. Hey, his husband has some nice curls. Sometimes a man has to stare. *
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Of course, Eames sweaty is a perennial distraction to Yusuf; when the Englishman strips down to his undershirts or even boxers, things have a tendency to get dropped, naps are had early.
Now grinning, Yusuf pats Eames' knee, leaving his hand there almost unconsciously. ]
When did he ask you? I seem to recall a young man marching into my lab last week with a serious look but getting distracted by me showing him how to make silly putty.
[ And no shitty glue and flour knockoff but their very own personalized liquid rubber. ]
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* Turning his eyes back to the field, Eames watches their son lag behind a bit and wonders what he's doing, why he's not running up to steal the ball from the little blue-shirted blighter when he sees the opening that his son's waiting for. He darts his foot in between another little boy's legs when the blue shirt kid passes the ball and Eames leaps up with an excited shout. He's shouting encouragement and advice at Desta, nearly yelling himself hoarse as their son keeps control of the ball (as much as a six year old can) and heads for the goal. *
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He pressed his shoulder back against Eames' and then when his husband leapt up to shout Yusuf laughed and shouted his own encouragement, cupping his hands around his mouth to make the sound travel. It takes a moment but Desta manages to make his own goal, and the mild embarassment on his face from his loud, overenthusiastic parents is replaced with six year old pride as both fathers whoop. ]
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He sits back down and doesn't even mind the way his shirt threatens to stick to his back in the spring heat. Eventually the ref blows his whistle and the kids scatter to get back to mid field, ready to go for another thirty minutes of chasing the ball back and forth.
There is nothing as satisfying as enrolling your child in a proper, competitive game of football. To Desta goes the glory and to his daddies goes the unchallenged nap time. *
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Yusuf hadn't regretted a moment of it yet, even when Desta kept him and Eames up all hours of the night when he was young, and the inevitable teenage years.
His grin is wide at his son's wave as he's swarmed, and he smiles even into the kiss Eames plants on him, laughing against the other man's mouth while other happy parents and spectators cheer.
At the whistle he moves his hand down Eames' back, pulling the thin cotton free from the sweat on his back and then reaching down to hold Eames' hand because he can, fingerd squeezing tight as the kids start their game ( ... )
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Eames presses his lips to Yusuf's shoulder, distractedly, because he's paying more attention than is healthy to a pack of six year olds chasing after a checked ball. Their fingers fit together the way they always have, even before Eames slipped the platinum band around Yusuf's finger-- platinum, because gold flecks were too reactive when working in the lab. *
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Yusuf leans back into Eames when he presses the kiss to his shoulder, also distracted by their son's team. The band had been something that made Yusuf grin for many reasons; because it was a symbol of their marriage, that Eames had remembered Yusuf's comment about reactive gold in the lab.
He squeezes Eames' hand again as Desta chases the blue shirted boy with the ball around, lifting a hand to call advice. ]
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Yes, that is precisely the kind of scoundrel Eames is, and he plans to never stop.
Eames runs his thumb over Yusuf's knuckles when he squeezes Eames' hand, watching Desta lag behind the quick blighter in blue. He could call out advice but Yusuf's got it covered, and is usually better at articulating things where Eames tends to shout nebulous nonsense. He can tell Desta is starting to lag and he almost wants to get up and call their son to the side lines for a drink of water. *
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